My dear ambassador, I am afraid
I am unable to join your pompous parade
of dignitaries on Thursday evening,
because I am working my way through
seven seasons of The West Wing,
Such an enthralling drama, I have found;
it passed me by first time around.
How thoughtful of you to invite me
to this exhibition by contemporary artists
on ‘Post-Urban Space: Dislocation and Catharsis’;
it’s an important theme that resonates
deep within me. But I cannot make this date,
nor indeed the next six weeks;
I have to read ten thousand tweets.
Dear Lord and Lady Asquith, I was charmed
to receive in the post today, your card
inviting me to supper at Hedge End –
ever the magnificent setting.
Gustav’s profiteroles are legend.
I would love to come, I really would rather,
but I’ve reached a new level on Candy Crush Saga.
Dear chat show producer, thank you so much
for the opportunity to sit on your sofa
and, amidst the giggles and knee-touches,
promote my brand and new book over
a million television sets.
Sadly, with regret, I must say no;
a cat upon one’s lap does limit one so.
Thank you, world, for thinking of me,
but I’ve never been much good at society.
Please do not think me rude
but I would rather hide my shyness
in solitude, behind a screen,
and use my own knife
to whittle down the hours of life,
to something barely seen.
